


thus with a kiss, i die

by rizcriz



Category: The Magicians (TV)
Genre: Angst, Gen, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-12-10
Updated: 2018-12-10
Packaged: 2019-09-16 00:12:34
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,169
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16943346
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/rizcriz/pseuds/rizcriz
Summary: Quentin kills the monster to save his friends





	thus with a kiss, i die

He’s lying on the ground, staring blankly up at the ceiling. Unseeing.

The knife slips out of Quentin’s hand and falls to the ground with a clatter. His mouth falls open on a staggered exhale. There’s a noise behind him—someone getting up, crunching their shoes on the broken glass.

“Is—is everyone—“

He’s not sure who’s speaking. They sound like they’re underwater, or far away. Maybe both. Quentin’s legs give out from beneath him, and he falls to his knees in front of the body. A large piece of glass digs into his knee—punctures the skin. Be Quentin can’t feel it. Or he can. But it doesn’t hurt. Not like this. It’s deep, can feel it in the skin of his knee, cutting through skin. Stinging.

But it doesn’t hurt. It’s numb.

Is it the numbness that hurts?

No.

No, there’s pain.

It’s creeping in. But it’s not the glass, or the gash in his head. It’s not the bruise forming on his ribs. Not the broken arm. He can’t feel any of that anymore.

It wasn’t supposed to end like this. There should have been another way. Even if it fucked everything else up. There’s always another way. They’ve always found an out where they all get out alive. They always survive.

It’s not—

“Oh, _shit_.”

“Get Margo.”

He’s still not sure who’s speaking. There are two voices, more shoes crunching on broken glass—a door opening and closing. It’s all happening in a bubble behind him. It’s like he’s living his life behind a glass wall, and he kind of is. He had to be. It was the only way.

His hands move against his will—he’s not even sure how he has the strength to move—until it slides across glass and to the cooling blood seeping through clothes. His fingers curl up in the stiffening fabric, as a low whine works it’s way up his throat. One hand slides up the side of the body, moving up over ribs, pausing over the space of a still heart, before shakily moving past a collar bone. He takes in a deep breath, pushing up on his knees, not even pausing to acknowledge the searing pain his knee, and leans over the body as his hand moves up to cup the familiar sloping shape of Eliot’s jawline.

Quentin clenches his jaw as a shiver shoots up his spine, and his chin trembles. His eyebrows pinch together, and the hand still fisted in fabric squeezes even tighter. Pain ricochets through the nerves there, but he doesn’t care, can still barely feel it.

The world around them slips away. The bloody ground around them fades to black, and Quentin thinks he might pass out as a wave of dizziness hits him. But he shakes his head and leans down to press his forehead to Eliot’s. He unclenches his hand from around the sticky fabric and moves it up to cup the back of Eliot’s head.

Hot tears slip down the slope of Quentin’s nose and fall, sliding down the sides of Eliot’s cheeks. Eliot’s already so cold beneath him. Quentin shudders, sob wracking through his body as he weaves his fingers through Eliot’s hair, and his thumb brushes over Eliot’s cheekbone.

His body is weak, can feel the fragility of his bones and skin creeping in at the edge of his consciousness. But that’s not where the pain is. It’s here, right beneath him.

Where the cool of Eliot’s body touches the space of Quentin’s chest that houses his heart. Where the silence is resounding. Where no beat follows in tandem. In the complete stillness of Eliot’s body.

In the luke warm blood drenching through Quentin’s shirt, where Quentin jammed the knife in Eliot’s chest.

There’s the pain.

Right there, in that hole in Eliot’s chest.

Quentin forces himself to pull away, tears slipping down his cheeks effortlessly as he strokes Eliot’s cheek. He gently pulls his other hand out from beneath Eliot’s head, patting blindly at the ground beside his legs, as he keeps his eyes locked on Eliot.

“Q—“

“Give him a minute, holy shit.”

“I didn’t think he’d actually do it.”

“Of course he did it. He didn’t have a choice.”

“But he said—“

His hand closes around the handle of the knife. Forged centuries ago, to kill any life force. Destroy the spirit and shatter the soul. The victim ceases to exist in any form.

Quentin hadn’t just killed the monster when he stabbed Eliot. He’d obliterated it.

But that wasn’t all.

Because they warned him. They warned him that Eliot would be gone too. They told him.

He’d been so sure they’d get the monster into a new body. That he wouldn’t have to kill Eliot. That they’d find a way past this, like they have every time before. That they’d trap the monster in a Niffin box, or force it to possess someone else.

But it was so attached to Eliot.

And they couldn’t.

And it was going to kill all of Quentin’s friends.

He didn’t have a choice.

He still doesn’t.

Because Eliot’s gone. Not to the underworld or any kind of afterlife. Not just buried beneath a monster.

No. Eliot’s gone.

And Quentin—

. . . Quentin can’tlive with this pain.

“What’s he doing?”

With this emptiness.

“Take down the force field, Margo!”

“I’m _trying_!”

Quentin can’t live without Eliot. He’s known it for a long time now. Probably before the mosaic quest. He’s not sure. It only really hit when his memories came back. How empty he’d been before. And how Eliot’s presence filled so much of the emptiness.

“Margo!”

“It’s not working. Quentin, _stop_!”

“Penny _do something_!”

“It’s set up so nothing can get in or out—what the fuck am I supposed to do?”

He moves his hand up so he can close Eliot’s eyes. It does nothing, but it might make it easier for the others. For Margo.

He wants to feel bad.

But he can’t feel anything.

“ _Quentin_!”

“ _No_!”

He pulls away Eliot, leaving his hand on his shoulder. He’s just far enough that he can lift the knife up between them. He doesn’t look away from Eliot; not once. Not even to make sure his grip on the knife is solid.

There’s a scream behind him that shatters the air. Heart wrenching.

Almost like it’s his own pain manifested.

It’s not.

But he knows who’s it is.

“We have to do something—“

“There’s nothing we can do.”

“Julia—“

“I’ve been _trying_. There’s—there’s no way in. No even for me. He has to break the barrier.” 

He brings up the knife, holds the point to wall of his chest.

“Margo—“

“Don’t.”

Pulls back.

“ _Stop_!”

And with every bit of strength he has left in his body—

“Catch her!”

—slams it into his own heart.

“ _Margo_ —“

He hears her scream, achingly potent and clear as day as the forcefield falls, and he pitches forward, landing with a soft thump on Eliot’s body.

There’s no pain. 

There’s nothing.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 


End file.
